The Secret Cave
by Heinz-Lee
Summary: Modern day AU. Christine is sent to a school for the gifted at the age of 12. What if Raoul and Erik were best friends. What if Christine, while going out with Raoul had to fall for Erik.
1. Chapter 1 - Arival

A/N: This is my first story for POTO, so please bear with me. It is very loosely based on my experiences. You are very welcome to ask what parts of Christine's life correspond with mine. This first chapter may seem irrelevant to the story as a whole at first, but I assure you that its relevance will become evident as the story progresses.

Acknowledgements: Firstly and most importantly, I would like to dedicate this story to God, who gave me a talent which I would like to improve through practice. Secondly, to some fantastic fan fiction writers, who are on my favourites list: for your excellent stories which have inspired this multi-chapter fic. Thirdly, to a very dear friend who is the inspiration for my variation of Erik: although he doesn't read fan fiction, I acknowledge his contribution in absentia. Lastly, to you, the reader: I hope you enjoy this story as much as I enjoy writing it. Please read and find it in your hearts to review this work honestly.

Please note that I will update when I get chance to, so even if it seems as if I am taking long, I have not forgotten this story. Life has just made updates rather delayed.

Disclaimer: This idea is entirely my own, however, all characters, songs and any other things you recognise belong to their original authors - I am only borrowing them.

Chapter 1

Arrival

It was a dry, hot summer's day when I came to the school for the first time. I carried my heavy suitcase in one hand and my guitar over the other shoulder. Although I was lightly dressed in my customary PT-shorts and t-shirt, I still felt the perspiration running down my back in rivulets.

Madame Giry, a strict yet motherly woman came to fetch me from the bus stop. Her hair, which once was pitch-black according to her photos in the old magazines I had inherited from my parents, had turned grey, now, indicating her age and wisdom. She was also plumper than by-gone days, probably for lack of exercise after the accident, which had forced her to take an administrative position in the prestigious school.

"I trust you had a safe journey," she said, kindly.

"Yes, Madame. Although I am rather exhausted, thank you."

"We will be there soon, Christine. I am sure you would enjoy a good lunch before you turn in."

"Yes please, Madame. Are there other girls my age in residence?"

"Yes, only one other: Louise. I am sure you will take to each other the moment you meet. She has been the only girl in her class for most of her life. I am sure she will take good care of you."

She must have seen the shadow crossing my face, for she fell silent on that topic. I was glad she didn't ask any questions, since I had neither the strength nor the energy to tell the story behind my arrival. I was sure that she was content with the explanation of my permanent residence in the records, although it was not all that explanatory. The only information it gave was that I had been an orphan since the age of seven and my previous school had recognised me as a gifted pupil.

13 October: A small girl lay on the bed on the top floor of a town-house. Numerous swellings covered her body; the parasite devouring her life-force bit by bit. Reduced to a painful, voiceless spectre of her former self, she lay in that realm between sleep and wakefulness, ever listening, yet unable to answer the numerous stupid questions thrown her way.

I sat on the floor beside her single bed, watching her face for the last time. I wished I had the right words to say to her, words to express my deep regret for the many times I had wronged her and how much I would miss her, yet I remained silent, keeping my seething temper under the surface.

My principal, the psychologist and one of the other teachers stood around her bed, presumably to pay their last respects; although it seemed rather unlikely that they had any respect for her by the way they were carrying on. Their loud voices split the silence, like a discordant note in a perfect melody; their loud laughter, an assault on the ears of the suffering souls in that room.

I felt my rage increase; the longer we sat there, remembering her mother's words to me: "She won't be able to speak to you, Christine, and she is sleeping, so you shouldn't talk as much as you usually do."

There was no need for her warning, however. I was too deeply moved by her pain to speak and too respectful of her need for silence to attempt conversation. I hated the fact that the adults disregarded the admonition and that they could not show a milligram of compassion toward her.

The crowning cherry on my cake of rage, however, came when the psychologist, unthinkingly tickled her hand, disregarding the pain it would cause her. My compassion for her was the only thing restraining me from lashing out at them and yelling: "How dare you, who have the audacity to call yourself caring adults, stand here laughing, talking and touching without any regard for the little girl suffering in that bed after her mother expressly told you that she is sensitive to sound and the cancer causes pain at the slightest touch! Then you have the audacity to congratulate yourselves on your so-called compassion and understanding!"

We left soon after that and I spoke no words on the way back. The last thing I said to her was a simple "good-bye" and I knew it was not enough. She died a week later.

Soon after her death, I begged my aunt to send me to the special school although she would be hard-pressed to afford it, having two children of her own. She agreed gladly, knowing that distance would heal my wounds and she could spend more time with her own children who needed her attention more than me. I received a scholarship on account of my intelligence and the fact that I am an orphan.

So, a little less than three months later, in one of the hottest summers we had experienced in my lifetime, she and my cousins dropped me off at the bus stop for the first and last time in many years.

Now I stood by the bus stop in a strange town, with a strange, kindly woman who understood nothing of the shadows of my past.

Madame Giry loaded my suitcase in her car and drove me to my new school, her tongue going all the while.

We arrived at the school in fifteen minutes. It was a large, imposing castle-like building, reminiscent of different eras in the field of architecture. The oldest wing (the church) dated back to the 1800s and the newest part dated to the 1980s. I felt too tired to wonder about the history behind the different wings of the building.

We parked by the modern wing of the building and Madame Giry led the way to my room which I would be sharing with Louise. I dumped my suitcase at the foot of my bed and rested the guitar against the wall before following Madame to the dining room where a number of girls, varying in age from nine to eighteen sat eating by many rectangular tables. I sat in a corner by myself, too tired to communicate with strangers and ate the first meal in my new home.


	2. Chapter 2 - The Truth Beyond The Mirror

A/N: Thank you to all the people who read the first chapter of this story so far. A special thank you to sheholmes for favouriting and following this story so far, I really appreciate it. Please review, even if you want to criticize me. Please be honest and I will try to work on my mistakes, since I edit my own work. Thank you and enjoy.

Disclaimer: This idea is entirely my own, however, all characters, songs and any other things you recognise belong to their original authors - I am only borrowing them.

CHAPTER 2

THE TRUTH BEYOND THE MIRROR

After lunch, I made my way upstairs, hoping to find a clean bath. As I arrived in my room, I gathered my things and explored the bathroom I would be using for the next few years. It was a large room, split into cubicles for 5 showers, 5 toilets and 4 baths. There were mirrors above the basins, where we washed our hands and brushed our teeth. It was cooler in here than outside,because of the extractor fans. Fluorescent lights lit up its interior and reflected in the lynnolium floors.

Each bath had a table and wooden mat beside it. I took the one nearest the basins and let the hot water run while I brushed my teeth.

Listening to the hiss of the running water, I stared at my face in the mirror. It was small and oval-shaped with dark rings around the eyes, a testament to the last few sleepless nights. My skin was pale, so pale that the smallest amount of sunlight burnt it red.

I ran my fingers through my brown hair, trying to disentangle the knots and deciding, after a few fruitless seconds, to give it up as a bad job. My hair was far too fine to survive all the twisting I had been doing for the last few days.

The reflection was like a painting – on the surface, it showed a tired face, surrounded by messy brown hair, grim and almost expressionless. On a deeper level, it showed a deep sadness in the girl's eyes, a testament to her sorrow, yet there was a strength in her face which told you that she was not a quitter.

I turned away from the basin and went to soak myself in the bath. I wondered what the strong girl in the mirror would say about my nervousness. Would she laugh at my insecurities. Was I being crazy? Perhaps, but I was by nature a loner, and loners often only conversed with themselves.

Some time later, I sat before the mirror in my bedroom and brushed out my long hair. The girl beyond the glass seemed to give me a tired smile, as if she understood what I was going through.

"Do you ever feel lonely? Do you ever wonder what people think of you? Do you ever think they laugh at you because you wear plain clothes, because your hair and eyes are the wrong colour, because your parents are dead and you live with your aunt and her brats? I wish you could talk to me and tell me what to do."

I felt a presence in the room. It wasn't an uncomfortable feeling: it was more comforting than uncomfortable. The kind of feeling that you get when a close friend or family member sits and listens to you without judging. I felt like I could say anything and this presence, whatever it was, would listen and not laugh at me as the kids in my other school had.

"I don't mean to complain, but my aunt doesn't always have enough money for all of us, then she gives her daughter new stuff, but I get all the hand-me-downs from her colleagues and people who pity me. I was lucky to get the guitar, because my cousin gave up playing after two days. She said it hurt her fingers too much, and her brother never had any use for such things. So it was given to me.

"My aunt always said I got my talent from my parents, while her kids never had an ounce of talent, or the strength to develop it. Thank goodness, that's one thing I have that they don't and they could never take that from me.

"My cousins tried that once, you know? They locked me in a room when their mother was out, without any instruments or anything, but I could still play better than them when I came out."

The feeling seemed to increase and my reflection seemed to wink. What kind of mirror was this, that reacted to me? No mirror had been that sympathetic before; usually they just remained silent and unresponsive. Surely I was over tired, surely I was dreaming.

My one cousin always played with me and made sure that I had everything I needed, although he would often tease me by holding my teddies out of reach, but he never let me forget that I was not his sister, although I was more likely to play rough games with him than she was. I always had a more active imagination than either of them, so that also made me "out" in their world of reality.

The younger one - my aunt's daughter – had always been a bully. Although I was taller and older than her, she often bullied and teased me for my gentleness. I didn't understand her, since she always wanted what I had, and if she got what she wanted, it would be broken by the next week.

I knew my aunt preferred her spoiled "normal" children to the strange child she had to look after since her sister's death. I loved and respected her, but sometimes I wondered what it would be like to have my own parents, to be taught by them and not to have to teach myself from old music books. I was happy to be in this new school.

I shook my head in puzzlement and said, "I am going crazy."

Shrugging my shoulders, I stood up and slid between the sheets to catch up on some well-desired sleep before supper. I could swear I heard someone whisper, "I understand exactly how you feel."

Giving it up as a figment of my over-active imagination, I turned over and fell asleep until I was awoken by the entrance of my new room-mate and her family.


End file.
